A little navel-gazing this morning. While talking to Mom last night she brings up my depression. She's worried about me. I need to see a shrink and have my meds evaluated. I need to get out of the house... You get the picture. The problem isn't that I don't agree with her, it's just that every time she starts in on this it makes me not want to do it. It is a horribly childish, contrary, idiotic, and non-helpful attitude but I don't want her to be right. Or tell me what to do (I'm 30 for God's sake). I don't want her to worry. Half of my life is spent trying to keep her from worrying about me. She has enough to worry about with my siblings (not all, just a few), Dad, and her own health.
I've been trying to keep her from worrying since I was little and thought the reason she hid and cried in the closet was my fault. The grown-up in me knows it wasn't; the 7-yr old in me can't be convinced otherwise. It's a hopeless cause, I know. Mothers worry, that is the way it is. But still I try. I don't tell her much because that's the only way to keep worrying info from her. That also means the one few people who has known me "forever", doesn't know me.
She also brought up my weight. "If I keep gaining weight, it will get in the way of doing some of the things I want to do." In other words, I will never find a man if I don't lose weight. Thanks Mom, that's a boost to the self-esteem. I don't already feel bad enough about how I look and my chances with the opposite sex.
And she wonders why I don't come over for dinner very often.